


The Sun in Splendor

by ariel2me



Series: House Martell [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:10:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 11,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of House Martell drabbles and ficlets.</p><p>Chapter 20: Mariah Martell & Daenerys Targaryen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prompt: Doran playing cyvasse with Trystane, Doran telling Trystane about the betrothal**

“Dragons can fly, you know.”

Trystane looked up from his intense contemplation of the cyvasse squares, his hand poised in mid-air, clutching an onyx elephant piece.

“Putting all your elephants behind the mountains will not protect them from my dragons.”

Trystane considered this, quietly. And then he plopped down the elephant piece behind a mountain anyway. “I still think there is a way to win with this arrangement, if only I could find it,” he said doggedly. “If only elephants could fly,” Trystane continued, wistfully.

Doran smiled. “When you first started playing cyvasse, you wanted to make the horses fly. Horses should have wings, you said. It would be a glorious sight to behold, even more than dragons.”

Trystane looked surprised. “I did not think you would remember that, Father.”

Doran shifted in his seat. “Am I so old that I must have forgotten many things?” He teased his son.

Trystane blinked rapidly in succession, as if he was uncertain whether his father was indeed making a jape. How strange it must be, for this boy of three-and –ten to have as a father a grave, ailing man of two-and-fifty. Doran had been stronger and in better health when Arianne and Quentyn were children.

Not that Trystane was, strictly speaking, a child, at that. Three-and-ten was only three years away from being of age, from being a man. Old enough to be betrothed, certainly. More than old enough to be sent away to squire for some lord. Doran himself had been only nine when he was sent to Salt Shore to serve as Lord Gargalen’s squire; Quentyn had been even younger when he was sent to be fostered with the Yronwoods. And yet, with this child, his and Mellario’s youngest …

“You are not as old as that, Father,” Trystane said, but the attempted levity and cheerfulness in his voice was belied by the way his eyes kept glancing at his father’s pale and puffy face, at the inflamed joints in Doran’s hands.

With the pieces all arranged on the cyvasse table, Doran made his first move, deploying a horse on attack. Trystane was disconcerted; this was not the way his father usually began his play. Ever cautious, ever vigilant, Doran usually began by strengthening his defenses, deploying fortresses instead of horses.

“A bold move, Father,” Trystane said, still considering his own first move. “Are you certain it is not a reckless one?”

“You must not confuse boldness with recklessness, Trystane. Or mistake patience with forbearance, for that matter. There is a time to be bold, when events warrant it, when patient planning and waiting has made victory possible.”

Trystane lifted his eyes from the cyvasse table, staring at his father questioningly.  

“The late king’s daughter, Princess Myrcella, will be coming to Sunspear,” Doran said, his voice low.

“Is the princess to be fostered at Dorne? Or to serve as your cupbearer, Father?”

Doran shook his head. “She is to be betrothed.”

“To Quent?” It made sense to Trystane. Quentyn was his older brother after all, and he should be betrothed before Trystane.

“No, my son. To you.”

Startled, Trystane asked, “To me? But what about Quent?”

“Your brother has a harder road to walk. He must do his duty to Dorne in another way. Where he must go, I cannot send you because you are too young still. Do you understand?”

Trystane nodded, understanding that his father wanted to leave it at that, to say no more. _Reckless_   _words are as dangerous as reckless deeds_ , his father often said.  _You never know who might be listening._

“Princess Myrcella will be afraid and lonely, being so far away from home, from her family, for the first time. You must remember to always be kind and attentive to her, Trystane.”

“Yes, Father.” They continued the game of cyvasse without speaking, until a disquieting thought suddenly struck Trystane. “But … Father, will they not suspect anything, if it is me who is to be betrothed to Princess Myrcella? Why not your older son, they might wonder.”

“Ah, I have thought of that,” Doran said, as he deployed a dragon piece to devour one of Quentyn’s elephants. “The princess is only one-and-ten; it will be a few years until she is old enough for the wedding to take place. I wrote to her uncle that my oldest son Quentyn is eight-and-ten, and could not wait too long to marry and beget an heir. What is more, the princess herself will find it more amenable betrothed to someone closer to her own age, someone she can look on as companion and playmate while waiting for the time when they are old enough to wed.”

“You have thought of everything, Father,” Trystane marveled.

“As we must, before we make any move, in a game of cyvasse, or in life.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: Quentyn survives his encounter with the dragons, but is banished back to Westeros. On the way, the ship runs aground in a storm, and washes up at Cape Wrath. Marya, who's lost a son Quentyn's age, takes him in.**

He lied to her at first; the tall, bald companion of the gravely injured young man. He told her tales of being sons of merchants, of being robbed of all their possessions, of the fire in the inn that was the cause of his friend’s injury. He gave her names that were plainly not their own, names that took them a moment too long to reply to when called.

But  _he_  spoke the truth, the injured young man himself. In his fever and his delirium, laid out in the room that used to be shared by Maric and Matthos, he mumbled and muttered under his breath, when he was not screaming with pain.

He called out for his mother. Grasping Marya’s hand as she was trying to spoon soup into his disfigured mouth, he whispered, “I have never forgotten you, Mother. I should have come to see you long before this. I should have come to see the place that gave you birth.”

Marya held him in her arms as he wept, as he spoke of all the things he should have done, of all the things he wished to do. She held him in her arms and tried to remember each and every word he spoke, so she could convey them to his mother one day, the actual intended recipient of those words.

How strange and twisted fate was. Long after the battle at Blackwater Bay, Marya had held on to this notion - call it faith, call it illusion - that perhaps her sons had survived, that perhaps they were not dead at all and only missing, that somewhere, someplace, her four oldest sons were still living; hurting and injured, yes, but alive nonetheless, being cared for by some kindly souls. After all, she had thought her husband dead too, at first, after Blackwater, but Davos came back, didn’t he? Her husband survived; why shouldn’t their sons?

The young man in Marya’s arms begged his father for forgiveness. “You put the fate of Dorne in my hands, Father, and I failed you. I have disappointed you. Forgive me, Father.”

 _Your father would be glad that you are alive. He would not care about anything else, any failure or disappointment,_ Marya wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She did not know this young man’s father at all, not the way she knew the father of her own sons. 

 _The fate of Dorne_. What could he have meant by that? Marya wondered.

“The Prince of Dorne has two sons,” Stanny whispered to her later, “but one of them is only a boy.” He had been wary of the two strangers his mother had allowed to take shelter in their house, and thinking himself the man of the house with his father and older brothers gone, he had taken it upon himself to stand watch every time his mother was alone with either of the men, even the injured, helpless one.

“How do you know so much?” Marya asked, running her fingers through his unruly hair.

“Devan told me,” Stanny replied. Devan often wrote to his younger brothers, telling them about his lessons and all the things he was learning from the maester. Devan took his lessons alongside Princess Shireen herself, and was very diligent and much-praised by Maester Pylos; something Davos had been very proud of.

Stanny fidgeted. “I suppose Devan is no longer taking lessons, now that he’s at Castle Black. He has not written to us in  _ages_ ,” he complained, suddenly sounding younger than ten, still a boy at heart, a boy missing his brother. Marya steeled herself so her own fears and worries about Devan would not be apparent to Stanny.

The next morning, Marya spoke to the tall, bald man. “Have you sent words to your friend’s father and mother?” She asked, abruptly, but not unkindly.

Startled, the man looked away, as if trying to gain some time to think of his reply.

“I know who your friend is,” Marya said. The look of consternation on his face was confirmation enough. “You have nothing to fear,” Marya continued. “Your secret is safe with me.”

 “I dare not send words to his father, my lady,” he replied, after a long silence. “Your servants say that ravens are being shot down by the droves. If my letter is intercepted, the danger is great.”

Cape Wrath and the Rainwoods were full of sellswords and men with arms at the moment. Rumors and uncertainties flourished, as no one was really certain whose side those men were fighting for.

“We have been abusing your kindness and hospitality, my lady. I am so sorry. But I dare not continue our journey until he is stronger. He might not survive it. He almost died on the ship.”

“He is not yet strong enough to be moved. You must go yourself to his father, to tell him that his son is alive, and he could make the proper arrangements to take your friend home, once he is well enough to travel.”

“And leave him here,  _alone_?” The bald man protested.

“Not alone,” Marya said. “With me. He will be safe here. We do not get many visitors, hardly any, in fact.”

The bald man considered Marya’s words. “Why are you doing this, my lady?” He finally asked. “Why would you go into so much trouble for strangers you have never met?”

“I have sons, too. You have seen them, my Steff and Stanny. I had other sons, four others. They died. But if they had survived, if they were lost and hurt, I would have wished and prayed that someone would be kind enough to take them in, to help  them when they most needed it.”

Hesitating, the bald man asked, “What are your sons’ names? The ones who died.”

 _The ones who died_. Oh it was true; she had known that deep down for a long time now, despite her constant prayers to the gods. She would never see them again, until she is dead herself.

Marya said each name slowly. “Dale. Allard. Maric. Matthos.” She paused, stifling her tears. “And what is your name? Your real name,” she asked the bald man.

“Archibald, my lady, but they call me the big man.”

Marya smiled at that. “And your friend’s name?”

“Quent. Quentyn.”

“He has been calling for his mother. Do you know her name?”

Archibald nodded. “Mellario. His mother’s name is Mellario.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: Oberyn/Jon Connington – Oberyn made a pass on Jon Connington, before figuring out that Connington only had eyes for Elia’s husband.**

“Dornish wine does not interest you, Lord Connington?”

“Only in moderation,” came the reply, brusque and uninviting. It amused Oberyn; Connington’s determination to appear completely uninterested. He had seen which way Connington’s eyes roamed during the three days of festivities celebrating the marriage of Rhaegar and Elia, and it was not towards any woman, maiden, or girl.

“Our wine is too strong for some. Too potent for the cold-blooded ones devoid of passion, especially.”

Connington flushed. “Not everyone feels to need to flaunt our passion to all and sundry,” he protested, a little too insistently.

The gauntlet was picked up as Oberyn meant it to be. He smiled. “Well, well. How wrong I have been. I would never have suspected that  _you_  of all people nurture secret passions deep in your heart. Does Prince Rhaegar know?”

The alarm, the sheer horror on Connington’s face was a sight to behold. “What do you mean by that?! He demanded, whispering furiously, leaning so close that Oberyn could hear the pounding of Connington’s heart. “Is that a threat?”

“A threat?” Oberyn laughed. “No, Lord Connington, it is not a threat. It is not an ill thing, you know. To prefer men to women. Or to prefer both equally.”

Connington scoffed. “Not to you, perhaps. Sadly, the world does not see fit to be so accommodating. I have heard much about your notorious and licentious reputation, Prince Oberyn. You are famous for it throughout the Seven Kingdoms.”

Oberyn shrugged. “I live honestly and openly. I see no reason to hide and cower with shame. If some people wish to call that notoriety, it is not my concern.”

“And yet they call you The Red Viper.”

“Not on account of who I bring to my bed.”

Their eyes met, Oberyn’s glinting, Connington’s uncertain. “I … I am not what you think I am,” Connington said. His own hesitancy must have made him furious, for his voice suddenly rose and he exclaimed, “How dare you? How dare you presume so about me? I am Prince Rhaegar’s most trusted companion. I am a man of honor!”

“Or perhaps,” Oberyn said, finally cottoning on to why Connington had reacted so violently when Rhaegar’s name was mentioned, “perhaps you prefer to love from afar. Someone unattainable. Someone you could convince yourself you only love in a brotherly manner, in a chivalric manner, when in truth, you would give anything to –“

Connington grabbed Oberyn’s wrist, hard. “Enough!”

“Unhand me, Connington,” Oberyn warned, his voice ominously composed, dangerously low.

Connington removed his grip. Distraught, he emptied his wine goblet in one quick gulp.

“Prince Rhaegar is married to my sister,” Oberyn pointed out the obvious.

Connington said nothing.

“My sister is very precious to me,” Oberyn continued, his voice full of unspoken warnings.

Connington laughed; a dark, bitter sound devoid of any mirth. “Your sister has nothing to fear from me.”

“Oh?”

“Prince Rhaegar is not like you,”Connington said, the misery palpable in his voice, on his face.

“Or like you,” Oberyn said, expecting another fierce denial.

This time, however, Connington did not bother protesting.


	4. Chapter 4

> _“What has love to do with marriage? A prince should know better. Your father married for love, it’s said. How much joy has he had of that?” (A Dance with Dragons)_

A prince should know better, they said. A prince should know better than to follow his heart and not his head. A prince should know better than to delude himself into believing that his life was his own.

He was the son of the Princess of Dorne, for gods’ sake, not the son of a fishwife free to marry as he wished, free to follow his heart as he pleased.

Her father was rich and her dowry large, this Norvoshi woman, but her father was not truly powerful, not counted among those ruling Norvos. And even if he had been, what of it? Dorne had no need of a close alliance with Norvos, a city far away from Dorne, far away from the Seven Kingdoms, a city without distinction among the Free Cities of Essos. Not the largest. Not the richest. Not even one who could claim, proclaim and declaim the closest tie to the glory of Old Valyria in bouts of nostalgia and self-righteousness.

And if a prince was going to follow his heart, to be rash and reckless for the sake of a woman, to throw away all his habitual caution and ingrained prudence, well, then, she had better be something else, this woman, to make it all worth the trouble. She had better be nothing less than the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth. She had better be a goddess, the stuff of legends.

The face that launched a thousand ships. Or at least inspired a hundred songs.

She cheated them of the ships, the songs and the legends. She was merely pretty, this woman. Oh some said she was beautiful, but if she was, she was beautiful only in the way ordinary women could be beautiful. She was merely mortal, this woman; not a goddess, not a legend. Small-boned, short in stature.  _Those hips seem too small for childbearing,_ they muttered, ominously.

 _Why oh why,_  they whispered,just loud enough for Mellario to hear on her wedding day,  _why_   _did our prince have to wed her? Why could he have not been content making this Norvoshi woman his paramour?_

Even her ending cheated them of their ships, their songs and their legends. The marriage soured, she left Dorne to return to Norvos, and that was that, as far as they were concerned. Where were the ships poised to attack Sunspear? Where were the arrows raining down on Dorne? Where was the blood staining the realm bright red?

Who would want to write songs and compose legends about the prosaic, the ordinary, the all-too-human breakdown of a marriage? Where was the romance in that? Where was the tragedy in that? Love without a body count; why, it almost seemed like no love at all.

And then there was this, her greatest sin of all: she was human, nothing more, nothing less. And thus was a disappointment to the very end.


	5. Chapter 5

**Mellario of Norvos + “Your [mother] married for love, it’s said. How much joy has [she] had of that?”**

________________________

_“What has love to do with marriage? A prince should know better. Your father married for love, it’s said. How much joy has he had of that?”_

_(A Dance with Dragons)_

________________________

Love - or that pale reflection passing for it - does not end as swiftly and as irrevocably as she wishes it does.

He writes to her in Norvos, careful letters with careful words.

She replies with her own careful words, devoid of the anger still burning in her breast.

“Let me have my son. Let me have Trystane,” she always adds. Arianne belongs to Dorne and Quentyn to the Yronwoods, as he keeps telling her, but Trys, Trys is still his to give. To give to her, to Trys’ mother.

“Trystane is a prince of Dorne,” he always replies.

He writes to her about the children frolicking in the Water Gardens, new ones in every letter.

All she wants to remember is the green-haired Tyroshi girl, the one who was supposed to take Arianne’s place.

And yet her treacherous, weak-willed heart also remembers the first time he took her to the Water Gardens; her gasp of astonishment, the look of delight on his face hearing that. Everything had seemed so magical, back then. He was her deliverance and her escape, as she was his.

She loved that feeling; she loved being the very few who could bring a smile to his solemn face.

They dipped their feet in the water in one of the shallower pools one night under the moonlight, when she was carrying their first child in her belly.

“What if it is a girl?”

“Then she will be the Princess of Dorne, ruling all of Dorne after her father.”

“And nothing will take that away from her?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even if I die and you wed another, and a son is born to this woman?”

“Hush. You will not die.”

“Promise me that nothing will take that away from our daughter.”

“I promise.”

His words were gold to the ear of a woman who had long been her father’s heiress, until she was unceremoniously displaced by a stepbrother delivered by a stepmother only a few years older than she was.  

“You should have told me about Quentyn. You should have told me about the blood debt before we were wed. No, you should have told me before I accepted your proposal!”

It must be the place, hot and dry. It must be the food, strange and spicy. It must be the custom, the people, the -

Yet she could have endured all that, if he had turned out to be who she thought he was.

Who _was_ that, truly? What did she really know of this solemn prince from the distant land who shone so brightly in red-and-gold?

He is honest, she once thought. He does not dissemble or flatter falsely.

He does not lie, not outright, not blatantly, but he hides behind his careful words. _Words are like arrows. Once released, they cannot be taken back._   

“You would return to Norvos? To your father’s home? Where she still lives, your stepmother?”

“Better my stepmother than this torment.” Than this life with him.

She will be known as the mother who abandons her children. But she knows she has to leave, when what is first meant as a threat to frighten him, to prevent him from sending another one of their children away, turns into an act she actually wishes to commit.

She knows she _really_ has to leave, when she imagines plunging that dagger into his chest before thrusting it into her own.

Better a mother who leaves, but still lives, than a mother who leaves her children orphans, fatherless and motherless.

He relents, about sending Arianne away, but she knows there is still _something,_ something he is holding back from her.

“Why? Why did you want to send her to Tyrosh in the first place? Is there another blood debt you have not told me about? Oberyn again? Or is it Elia this time? Must our children be used to pay, again and again, for the sake of your siblings?”

He closes his eyes. He looks pained. She is tired of him looking pained.


	6. Chapter 6

**Mellario of Norvos & Arianne Martell, betrayal**

Arianne counted three wigs. Her mother had left behind three of her wigs, including her best one, the soft curls of which Arianne had often tried to smooth out and put straight with the palms of her hands.  

_Surely this means Mother will return? Surely Mother will not leave this wig behind, her favorite, her absolute favorite?_

The wigs had all been jettisoned when Mellario first came to Dorne. She had let her hair grow long after her betrothal, so she could come to Dorne to wed her Dornish prince looking more like the women in the land she would be calling her new home. The wigs returned not long after her husband betrayed her with his silence and his secrets, soon after she was finally told the son she had labored to bring into the world was to be used as coins to pay a blood debt contracted by her husband’s reckless brother.

_You will hate me if I stay._

_How could I hate you for not leaving us, Mother?_

_You will hate the bitter, vengeful woman I would become if I stay. You will hate the mother who poisons her children against their father, against their people, against their land. You will hate the woman who has fallen so far down the pit of despair she wishes to destroy both herself and her husband, the father of her children._

Running her fingers down the length of her mother’s favorite wig, Arianne recalled the feel of her mother’s hand running down her cheek. _I could not do that to you, Arianne. Or to Quent and Trys. I could not do that to my children._

_But you could leave us? You could betray your children that way?_

_Staying would be a bigger betrayal._


	7. Chapter 7

**Elia Martell & Oberyn Martell**

The Yronwood girl was to blame, the youngest bastard old Lord Yronwood had sired on one of his many paramours. This one had very pale skin and blue eyes, so the mother was probably not even Dornish. She took Elia’s hand and begged the princess to play with her, to join the gaggle of screaming children at the largest pool in the Water Gardens. Elia resisted at first, glancing thoughtfully at her brother by her side, but something in the Yronwood girl’s eyes changed her mind.

Elia could never resist a sob story. As they grew older, she would ask him time and time again – _how would you feel, were you in that person’s place? Can’t you spare them a thought?_

Back to the Yronwood girl who was not called Yronwood but Sand with her puppy dog eyes and her sad stares, Oberyn was four and Elia five at the time, and he was recognizing this monstrous truth for the first time – _we are not one and the same._ His sister had a mind and a body of her own so alien to his own, and she could be wrenched from his side at any moment. Even worse, even _more_ unforgivable, was the fact that at times she herself would freely choose to leave his side, preferring the company of others to his own. How could this be? Everyone had always spoken of them in the same breath –EliaandOberyn, OberynandElia, as if they were one entity, a being, inseparable forever.

He felt betrayed, abandoned, lied to.

But it was a lesson that needed to be learned, he understood later, no matter how painful and wrenching it was at the time. The Lannister twins had never learned that lesson, Oberyn thought, as he watched them conversing with each other, their golden hair touching so you could not be sure where his ended and hers began, lost in their own secret world and their private universe, excluding all others.

He envied them their closeness, but at the same time he was also judging Jaime Lannister unfavorably as a potential husband for Elia. Elia deserved nothing less than a devoted husband who would put her first above all other women in his life.

As for Cersei Lannister, Oberyn was less troubled. A woman who was too devoted to her husband could prove more troublesome than helpful in the long run. Love and devotion could so easily curdle into jealousy and possessiveness, and Oberyn certainly did not want a jealous and possessive wife. Cersei could still love and admire her twin brother from afar, and leave her husband in peace to pursue his own pleasures.

“Has Mother spoken to Lord Tywin yet? About … the _big matter_ ,” Elia whispered, interrupting his speculation.

Oberyn shook his head. “She said she would wait a few days more, to give him time to grieve.”

Elia was restless. “Perhaps it is better for us to leave without the matter being broached at all. Lord Tywin has just lost his dear wife, and Jaime and Cersei have just lost their lady mother. Surely it is not the time to be thinking of betrothals and marriages,” she said softly. “And whatever informal agreement Mother might have come to with Lady Joanna, it is moot now that she is dead.”

“Why? Don’t you like Jaime Lannister? Is he not the man of your dream?” Oberyn teased his sister.

Elia was not in the mood for teasing. “It’s not about liking or disliking, is it?” She replied in a tone that struck him as uncharacteristically bitter.

Was it possible that she already had her heart set on another man? A man, not a boy like Jaime Lannister. Once when they were much younger, Oberyn would have thought that impossible, would have been convinced that it was completely implausible that his sister could keep something that monumental a secret from him, but now he was far less certain. There were things he had kept from her - many, many things. For her own sake, he tried to convince himself, for Elia’s health was uncertain at best, and she did not need more worries to blight her days and burden her thoughts. Yet at times he wondered whether keeping things secret from her was really for his own benefit, for he could not bear her censure and her disappointment, could not bear to think that she loved him any less than she did when they were children.

He yearned to ask her to confide her secrets to him, but his own secrets stayed his tongue. Yet he could not help but notice the relief in Elia’s eyes when Mother abruptly told them that they were leaving, that there would not be any betrothal at all, and there would never be any Martell-Lannister marriage alliance in her lifetime. Mother was tight-lipped about what Lord Tywin had actually said, but whatever it was must have been very offensive and insulting to raise the ire of the usually even-tempered Princess of Dorne to that extent.  


	8. Chapter 8

“Her brothers call her Lya.”

No need to ask who Rhaegar meant. Elia has seen his eyes following the Stark girl. His mournful eyes. His imploring eyes. His ‘ _I am a wounded creature in need of your special healing’_ eyes.

“How old is that child? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“Fourteen. And hardly a child. My lady mother was already a mother herself at that age.”

 _Only because your grandsire insisted she wed her brother at thirteen._ The Targaryens with their child brides and their incestuous marriages. The thought of Rhaenys, _her_ Rhaenys facing a similar fate terrified and horrified Elia in equal measure. 

“You must insist against it, Elia,” her mother had reminded her. “You must be determined, as determined as Queen Mariah had been.”

Mariah Martell is the shadow Elia constantly lives under. _I am trying, Mother. But my husband does not look at me the way her husband looked at her. Rhaegar’s eyes and ears, his heart and mind, are not open to my words and my counsel the way King Daeron was open to his wife’s words and counsel. And her goodfather -_

Truthfully, Mariah Martell’s goodfather had been as great a trial to her and to the rest of the realm as Elia’s goodfather is proving to be.

What would Queen Mariah have done, if her goodfather Aegon the Unworthy had publicly and contemptuously declared that her children ‘ _smelled Dornish_ ’, using Dornish as a grave insult? Oberyn would have raged; Mother would have retaliated with a witty yet deeply cutting remark. 

Elia had ignored her goodfather’s remark, had firmly refused to show any reaction at all. It is not fear driving her, but caution. Caution is the watchword. Better to wait and bide your time. The temporary satisfaction of showing an instant reaction is not worth the danger she could be plunging her family into. 

“Is that a sign of weakness, Mother?”

“There are many ways to be strong, Elia.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Elia Martell & Young Griff, courage**

_Your father was -_

_Your father yearned for –_

_Your father dreamed of –_

_Your father loved -_

_Your father. Your father. Your father._ He learned everything there was to know about his father from Jon Connington – well, everything that Jon wished him to know, in any case, for he suspected that there were plenty of things about his silver prince Jon kept to himself - but Jon would tell him almost nothing about his mother. Nothing of any significance in any case, nothing that could tell him who she truly _was_ , what she yearned for, dreamed of.

She loved her children, Jon told him _that_ , at least, but that fact alone told him very little, for what mother didn’t? (He is young, young and very sheltered, and has yet to learn that it is not something that could be taken for granted, that all mothers and fathers love their children. But he is also an orphan – an orphan raised by a man who treated him more like a precious jewel entrusted to his care than like a son, a jewel Jon has to continually polish and shape to be a worthy occupant of the throne, and perhaps more importantly in Jon’s mind, to be a son worthy of his dead father - and thus could not be faulted for desperately dreaming of the unconditional love of a parent.)

Septa Lemore knew more, about his mother, if only she was willing to speak. But she did so only rarely, always out of Jon’s hearing. “Your mother had courage. They think her weak, but she had more courage than your father ever did. She knew what needed to be done, what should have taken precedence, and laid her plans accordingly, but your father was … wavering. He had other things in mind, things he considered more important.”

“What needed to be done?”

“About your mad grandfather. About deposing him from the throne before the realm burned. Your mother knew that the clear and present danger must be dealt with first, before taking actions to avert future calamities.”

“But Jon said my father always knew what needed to be done. He had a reason, a good reason for everything he did.” That was the lodestar of his existence, the one thing Jon taught him over and over again. _No matter what they say about him, no matter what lies they tell you about him, remember that your father had the best of reason for everything he did. He was trying to save us all in the only way he knew how._

“Love can blind us to the truth. Your father was not the only one trying to save the realm. Your mother’s way would not have made you an orphan, would not have made countless children orphans.”

“Did you love my mother?”

Recoiling, Septa Lemore whispered, “I hardly knew her.”

“And yet you know so much about my mother.”

“I know what mattered to her. You may not have her looks, but you are your mother’s son too, not just your father’s. Remember that, in everything that you do.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Doran Martell & Arianne Martell, love**

“Higher!” Arianne demands.

Father laughs. “You’re too big for this game, Arianne. What if I can’t catch you this time?”

But Father always catches her. Always. He would never let her fall.

“When the baby comes out from mother’s belly, will you still want to play with me?”

Father kisses her cheek. “Of course.”

“Will you love me less? Will you love me ….” Arianne pauses, counting the numbers in her head, “only half as much?”

“Of course not. I will love you the same, as always.”

“But what about the baby? Aren’t you going to love the baby?” Arianne doesn’t want Father to love her less, of course, but poor, poor baby, if Father doesn’t love it at all.      

“I will love your brother or your sister too, of course, just like I love you.”

“But Grandmother said siblings have to share, that’s their duty. She said when you were her only child, you got a blood orange all to yourself, and then when Aunt Elia and Uncle Oberyn were born, you shared the blood orange with them, divided into three.”

“That’s true about many things, but not about love. I love your mother, and when you came –“

“-from mother’s belly,” Arianne interrupts.

Father smiles. “From her belly, yes. When you came, I love you too. But I don’t love your mother less because I love you. And I will not love you less because I love the new baby.”

“Love is not like blood orange?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then what is it like?”

“It’s like the moon,” Father whispers, pointing at the night sky.

“The moon?”

“Look how small it is now. We can barely see it. How do you think it will look tomorrow night, a week from now, two weeks from now?”

“It will be … bigger?”

“Clever girl. And eventually it will look like a complete circle, not just part of a circle.“

“It grows!”

“That’s what love is like. The more people you love, the bigger your love grows.”

 _But the moon grows smaller too, Father_ , _once it has become that complete circle_ , Arianne thinks, when she is four-and-ten and those words – _one day you will sit where I sit and rule all of Dorne_ – those words meant for Quentyn are haunting her every waking moment.

_You promised! You promised you would not love me any less. How could you lie? Father, why?_

Her father does not catch her this time, when she falls. He does not even see her falling. 


	11. Chapter 11

 He must have imagined it, Doran decided later. He must have imagined Mellario’s sharp intake of breath when she first entered the room, when her eyes first took in the rolling chair and the Myrish blanket covering his legs.

“How very like you,” she said, only moments later, her voice calm and steady, “not to mention this in your letters.”

“Letters can be intercepted,” Doran replied simply.

“And the Prince of Dorne has many enemies all too eager to exploit any sign of weakness on his part, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

There did not seem to be anything else to say, after that. Or else, there was much to say, but neither of them could find a way to say it.

“Mellario –“ Doran began, tentatively.

She was so beautiful still, even with the bitter watchfulness in her eyes, the bitter watchfulness that certainly was not there the first time he saw her. Her eyes had been laughing, back then.

“I have never regretted marrying you,” Doran said, gently.

“Then you are a _bigger_ fool than I thought possible,” Mellario replied harshly.

He winced, from the pain inflicted by her words, but she must have thought it was his legs giving him trouble, for both her voice and her expression softened as she asked, “Should I call Maester Caleotte?”

He shook his head. “I would like to be awake and in full use of my faculty.”

“Can the maester give you nothing for the pain other than milk of the poppy?”

  _ _Your touch would do much to alleviate the pain__ , he imagined telling her. That look in her eyes, he remembered it now. She had the same look when he told her about his brothers Mors and Olyvar, dead in their cradles. Had that been before, or after, their betrothal?

No! He would not stoop so low to take advantage of her soft heart. He turned his face sideways to avoid her gaze. That seemed to irritate her. Sighing heavily, she said, “You have not changed at all. Still so secretive, so _stoic_ , so intent on keeping everything to yourself, keeping everything hidden from me, even your pain.”

 _“_ My pain _ _?”__  He could not understand her complaint. Doran’s gout had been troubling him very little when Mellario left Dorne.

“Oh I don’t mean your legs!” Mellario said impatiently. “When your sister and her children died, you locked yourself in your solar for hours on end, day after day.”

Day after day spent writing endless letters, making careful plans, curtailing Oberyn’s recklessness.

Day after day spent on regrets and recriminations – what could he have done differently, so Elia and her babes would not have been so brutally slaughtered?  

He had wept too, behind that closed door.

Mellario continued, “You told me nothing. You allowed me not a glimpse of your pain, your grief. How could I be of any comfort to you, of any help, if I knew nothing at all? And then suddenly, you wanted to send Arianne to Tyrosh to be a cupbearer to some Archon you have never mentioned before. When I asked you the reason, you refused to tell me anything. You would steal away another one of my children without even the courtesy of telling me why.”

“I did not send Arianne to Tyrosh after all,” Doran reminded her. Mellario had threatened to harm herself; Doran could see the flash of the blade still. In the end, he could not bear to do that to the mother of his children, to the woman he loved still, despite all their quarrels, despite all their arguments and disagreements.

“What scheme was that for? What plans were you and Oberyn hatching back then?”

He closed his eyes. It was safer for Mellario if she knew nothing. Doran had no illusion; he and Oberyn had been planning what would surely be seen as treason by Robert Baratheon, in order to obtain justice for Elia's death, and the death of her children. Not that it was not treason for Robert Baratheon to usurp the throne. If Aerys was a madman who no longer deserved to sit on the Iron Throne, his grandson Aegon was a babe innocent of any wrongdoing, a babe who was the rightful king, a babe cruelly murdered alongside his mother and his sister so Robert Baratheon could sit on that throne.

But of course, safely entrenched on that throne, Robert Baratheon would not see it that way at all, would not hesitate to take their collective heads if he knew what had been planned.

Mellario took hold of Doran’s hand. “Promise me this, at least. Promise me you will not use our children in any dangerous scheme.”

“I love my children. I would never do anything to harm them.” He had been aiming for indignation, but his voice sounded only broken and weary beyond bearing. He laid his other hand atop her own. “Surely … surely you know that, Mellario?”

Mellario wrenched her hand away. “I know that you are a prince, and a brother, not just a father.”


	12. Chapter 12

> _"I was seven when Elia died. They say I held her daughter Rhaenys once, when I was too young to remember.” (excerpt from TWOW, Arianne I)_

“Can she walk?” Arianne asked.

“Not yet,” Elia replied.

“Can she play in the pools?”

Mellario laughed. “She's too young to play in the pools, Ari. When Rhaenys comes to visit us next time, perhaps she will be old enough to play in the pools.”

“Then what _can_ she do?”

“She can laugh,” Mellario said, making funny faces that elicited squeals of delight from Rhaenys. “See!”

Arianne laughed too. At least for a little while. Until it seemed that her mother's attention was thoroughly fixed on her cousin and her cousin alone. When Mellario asked to hold Rhaenys, Arianne began to fuss, pulling her mother's hand to get Mellario to take her to the water fountain.

“Later, Ari,” Mellario insisted.

“Now, Mama. _Now._ I want to go now,” Arianne said, equally insistent.

Elia smiled. “She's envious of her little cousin.” Her eyes wandered towards Mellario's belly. “When the little one comes, you will need to share your Mama, Arianne.”

“I will share my toys with my sister when she comes,” Arianne replied. “She can share my room too. They can put her cradle next to my bed, and I will sing to her when she cries at night. Like Mama sings to me when I wake up from a bad dream.”

“But she cannot share your Mama?” Elia teased.

Brows furrowed, hands clenched tightly, making her look older than her five years, Arianne seemed to be giving the matter serious consideration. Very serious consideration. “But Mama is _my_ Mama first,” she finally said, adamantly.

Her mother kissed her on both cheeks. “And I will always be your Mama, Ari, no matter how many brothers and sisters you have.”

“But you'll be their Mama too?”

“Yes. Like your father is Uncle Oberyn's brother, but he's also Aunt Elia's brother, and he loves them both the same.”

Arianne turned to her aunt. “Do _you_ love Papa and Uncle Oberyn the same?”

Elia laughed. “What a cheeky girl you are. Yes. Yes, I do, Arianne.” Then, leaning closer towards her niece, Elia whispered in Arianne's ear, “Your Mama will not love you any less, just because you have a brother or a sister. You will still be her precious Ari. Always.”

“Promise?” Arianne whispered back.

“I promise,” Elia replied, touching her forehead to Arianne's forehead, the way she and Oberyn used to seal their promises as children. _I swear it by the sun and the spear and the Seven,_ Elia would say. _I swear it by the sun and the moon and the stars,_ Oberyn would reply.

In Mellario's arms, Rhaenys did not fuss or squirm as she often did in the arms of strangers. “Look at her eyes!” exclaimed Mellario. “And those long lashes. They look just like yours, Elia. You have your mother's eyes, little one, your mother's beautiful eyes.”

Arianne leaned forward to get a better look. “But her eyes are so _huuuuge._ They're like …. like … giant saucers.”

“Hush, Ari. That is rude,” Mellario scolded. “Her eyes are not too big at all. They are just right for you, isn't that right, Rhaenys?” Mellario said, making cooing noises at the baby.

Arianne pouted. “I did not say it was _bad_ , Mama, to have big eyes. It makes her look like a big girl, like she can understand what we are saying.” Pointing at herself, Arianne said, addressing the baby, “My name is Arianne. Can you say that? A ... ri … anne.”

Rhaenys gurgled, and then gave a loud burp. Her mother and her aunt both laughed.

“Or you can call me Ari, if Arianne is too hard. It's my mother's special name for me, but you can use it too, since you're my cousin,” offered Arianne.

Rhaenys held out her arms, swaying them impatiently, as if demanding Arianne to pick her up. “Would you like to hold her?” Elia asked her niece.

Arianne nodded, eagerly.

“You must be careful, Ari,” Mellario said.

“I will, Mama. I promise.”

Slowly and gently, Mellario transferred Rhaenys into Arianne's arms. Elia's hands were supporting Arianne as she held Rhaenys. Swaying her arms, murmuring a song whose words were indecipherable to Mellario and Elia, Arianne's gaze was concentrated solely on her cousin. “Sleep well, little one. Wake up safe and strong and healthy,” she ended the song, the same one her father sang to her at night.

Rhaenys' eyes were still wide open, however, staring at Arianne, while her finger poked Arianne's mouth.

“Sleep _well_ , little one,” Arianne repeated, in a louder voice this time, in a tone that was less sing-songy and more like a command.

Mellario laughed. “If only we can make children sleep merely by telling them to do it,” she remarked to her goodsister.

“But I always go to sleep when you tell me to do it, Mama,” Arianne objected.

“Not always, Ari. Sometimes you just close your eyes and pretend to sleep. Your Papa could be fooled, but I know. I know when you are pretending,” Mellario said.

“Mothers _always_ know,” Elia added, smiling.


	13. Chapter 13

>   _The prince had been fostered by Lord Yronwood from a tender age, had served him as a page, then a squire, had even taken knighthood at his hands in preference to the Red Viper’s. (A Feast for Crows)_

“What news from my son?” Doran asked.

Oberyn set down the letter from Quentyn. “He has refused my offer to knight him. With a thousand apologies and humble professions of gratitude to his honored uncle, of course. How kind of me, he wrote, how loving of me to think of my undeserving nephew, and so on and so forth; he went on at some length about that. But he thought it would be a more suitable path for him to be knighted by the man he has served as a page and a squire these many years.”

“And this  _pleases_  you?” Doran asked, surprised to see the smile spreading across his brother's countenance.

“I expected to be refused,” said Oberyn.

“Why did you extend the offer to begin with, if you expected it to be refused?”

“So he could refuse me, of course,” Oberyn replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So the Yronwoods could see him refusing me, in favor of Anders Yronwood.”

“I see,” Doran said. And he  _did_  see. He also saw the snag in Oberyn's plan, however. “What if Quentyn had accepted your offer to knight him? What then? Were you not taking too great a risk, Oberyn?”

 _And without consulting me before you acted,_  Doran did not need to add. The silent rebuke was clear to his brother from the way his voice had gone quieter, even gentler in its tone.

“There was never any danger of that,” Oberyn insisted. “Quentyn is too much like  _you_ , brother. He would think it his  _duty_  to refuse me, so as not to offend his foster father, and all the other Yronwoods.”

“And you think your action in offering to knight Quentyn does not offend the Yronwoods? It is the custom for a squire to be knighted by the lord he has been squiring for, even more so when that lord is the squire's foster father.”

“Oh, they expect it of me. The Yronwoods fully expect the Red Viper to do  _outrageous_  things, shameless, treacherous things. It would not surprise them in the least to hear of my latest endeavor. Nothing could change their views of  _Oberyn_ Martell. Nothing could ever induce them to see me in a different light.But now that  _Quentyn_  Martell has shown them that he is not in the thrall of his oh-so-wicked uncle, that my influence holds no real sway on him ...”

Oberyn paused, his eyes staring at the empty pools and fountains, bereft of the splashing, shrieking children, now that the sun was setting. He saw red, only red. The red of blood, and the red of Lannister crimson. Finally, he added, “You will need the Yronwoods on your side, if we are to have justice for Elia and her children.”


	14. Chapter 14

>   _The Dornishmen who_ _had come to court with the Princess Elia were in the prince’s confidence as well, particularly Prince Lewyn Martell, Elia’s uncle and a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. (The World of Ice and Fire)_

Elia kissed her uncle on both cheeks. He reciprocated with a kiss on her forehead. For a time, they spoke only of inconsequential matters, like the weather.

“What was my husband's explanation for his conduct at Harrenhal?” Elia finally asked, after her ladies and her maids had all departed, leaving her alone with her uncle. This was a necessary precaution, for some of the ladies and the maids had been sent by her good-father, and a few she suspected of spying on her on his behalf. Even in Dragonstone, she could not fully escape the king's gaze, his contemptuous gaze.

Her uncle sighed. “Rhaegar said he had a reason. A reason he could not disclose, not at this time.”

“Could not disclose? Even to you? Are you still in his confidence, uncle?”

“I believed so, but -”

“ _Believed?_ You no longer believe it?”

Her uncle placed his hand on top of Elia's. “Had I known what he was planning to do at the tourney, I would have struck him down in the joust with my own hands.”

Elia squeezed his hand. “I do not doubt it for a moment, uncle. But if he is keeping secrets even from you, then -”

“What has he said to you, Elia?”

“Nothing of any consequences.” Then again, her husband had never fully shared his confidences with Elia, even before Harrenhal.

“It was not meant to shame you, Elia,” Rhaegar had said, about crowning the already-betrothed Stark girl as queen of love and beauty, in lieu of his own wife.

“Meant? It matters not what you  _meant_ , only what you  _did,”_ came her furious rejoinder. _“_ You shamed not only me, but all of Dorne. And you shamed  _yourself_  most of all, and showed yourself to the realm to be not much better than your father. You often speak to my uncle of your dream for a different kind of realm, of the coming reign of a better king, and yet -”

“Too harsh, my lady. You are too harsh,” he had protested. “There is a world of difference between my father and myself.”

“Then showcase that difference! To the realm. To your people.”

 _To your wife,_ Elia could have added.

After Harrenhal, she had heard all the whispers and the snickers about how Prince Rhaegar had cut down his Dornish wife to size, had finally refused to labor under the thumb and the oversized influence of his Dornish wife, and how Prince Rhaegar had done what King Daeron the Second had never done, but should have done, to his own Dornish wife Queen Mariah.

What a cruel, bitter and humorless jape it all was, thought Elia. As if Rhaegar had ever paid much attention to her in the first place. As if her influence had ever held much sway with him. Even before the tourney at Harrenhal, her uncle was the conduit she had to work through, to gain insight into what was in her husband's mind, and to convey her thoughts, opinions and suggestions to him without running the risk that they would be completely disregarded. That was humiliating enough, but now … now if even her uncle was no longer in Rhaegar's confidence … where did that leave her? And them?

“Arthur Dayne might know more than I do,” her uncle was saying. “Rhaegar could have shared more with him.”


	15. Chapter 15

The prince was very kind when he turned down Daemon’s request for Arianne’s hand in marriage. Very kind, and with a look on his face that could have almost passed for sadness. Sadness tinted with regret, as if the prince was regretting that his own hands were tied, as if  _he_  was not truly the one doing the rejection, the one dashing Daemon’s hope and crushing his dream.

The Bastard of Godsgrace could have forgiven the Prince of Dorne almost anything, except his kindness.

“Arianne has her own path that she must follow. I never meant for her to wed a Dornishman, either true-born or a bastard,” the prince had said then.

“Arianne needs a strong sword by her side,” the prince was saying now, as he made Daemon his daughter’s sworn shield to accompany her on the journey to the stormlands. “A strong sword and a steady hand.”

 _ _You did not think me good enough for your daughter’s hand then,__  Daemon thought,  _ _yet I am trustworthy enough in your eyes now to guard her precious life?__

This was not a thought worthy to be voiced aloud to his prince, his liege lord, the father of the woman who still had a place in his heart, despite everything.

“You know Arianne very well, in more ways than one,” the prince continued.

Were this Prince Oberyn speaking, Daemon’s ears would have been ever vigilant to the true words behind the ones spoken, the knots and the loops behind the simple tie, the plots and the schemes behind the seemingly uncomplicated plan of action. But this was Doran Martell, idle and indolent, late to action, a stranger to intrigues and conspiracies, not half the man his dead brother had been.

“You know my daughter in ways that many men do not, myself included,” Prince Doran concluded.

Had he, perhaps, grossly misjudged the Prince of Dorne and what he was capable of, Daemon wondered? Had they all, Arianne included, been guilty of underestimating Doran Martell from the start?


	16. Chapter 16

**For the prompt: Elia & Mellario, comfort**

“Is Dragonstone as grim, bleak and forbidding as people say it is?” Mellario asked.

Elia smiled. “The stories have been somewhat exaggerated. The stone dragons do not come alive at night to haunt those uneasy in their conscience, for one thing.”

Mellario laughed. “That one has always sounded most improbable to me, though  _quite_  fascinating, in some ways. But still,” she continued, her expression turning solemn, her hand grasping Elia's own, “it could not have been easy for you, living in a strange place so far away from home, a place so different from your own home.”

 _Living with a man you barely know,_   _a husband you did not choose yourself,_  Mellario added in her thought, but did not say out loud.

Squeezing her goodsister's hand, Elia said, “No harder than it was for you, when  _you_  came to Dorne. You had to travel a greater distance than I do, both in actual distance between Norvos and Dorne, and the distance between the two cultures and ways of life.”

“I was very fortunate. I had a goodsister who welcomed me with open arms, who was always there to support me, comfort me, guide me, aid me in my time of need. I wish,” Mellario said, wistfully, “that there is someone like that for you in Dragonstone.”

“The queen my goodmother has been very kind,” Elia replied.

“But she lives in King's Landing, not Dragonstone.”

“She writes to me often, and encourages me to share my troubles and burdens with her.” Elia kissed Mellario's cheek. “You are kind to worry about me, Mellario.”

“What are sisters for, if not to worry about one another?”


	17. Chapter 17

**For the prompt: Oberyn Martell & Sarella Sand, advice.**

“If I am to do this, Father, then –“

“Then your long hair must be the first to go.”

Sarella nodded. And she would have to bind her breasts, and start dressing like a young man. How strange, she thought. She would have to do all those things just so she could  _learn_. Her mother had captained a trading ship to sail across half the known world, but  _she_  never had to pretend to be a man to be able to do it. It was almost as if the Citadel thought that acquiring knowledge was a more manly occupation than captaining a ship, an occupation women were even more unfit for, Sarella remarked to her father.

“Your mother is not a Westerosi. The rules are different where she comes from. And the rules are different outside of Dorne, in the rest of Westeros.”

“You have never been fond of following the rules, Father.” Though, Oberyn Martell had forged numerous links of a maester’s chain himself during his time at the Citadel.

“I do not believe in following the rules for the sake of following the rules, but there are times when following the rules - to be  _seen_  to be following the rules, more specifically - is  _useful_ , to achieve our goal, or to attain our heart’s desire. Is this _truly_  your heart’s desire, Sarella?”

“You know it is, Father. You have known it since I was a little girl sitting on your lap, wanting to know everything there was to know about the world.”

“Then you must dowhatever you have to do, to attain it.”

“I will need a name,” Sarella said. “A man’s name.”

“Alleras,” her father replied, without hesitation.

Her name spelled backwards. She frowned. “Is that not too ... obvious?”

“Sometimes it is better to hide in plain sight.”


	18. Chapter 18

**For the prompt: Deria Martell & Nymor Martell, Deria returns from King's Landing.**

The return journey feels twice as long to Deria compared to the journey from Sunspear to King's Landing. Entering King's Landing - the enemy's den, the dragon's den - she had felt no fear and no hesitation, but now, as she nears the city of her birth, she fears what she will find on her return home. Will it be her ailing father welcoming her home, or merely his bones? 

_Wait for me, Father. You must wait for me. Wait for me to return with news of success, news of peace._

“Bring us back peace, Deria. Peace without submission, without kneeling to the dragons. Peace between two equals. The fate of Dorne lies in your hands, dearest daughter _.”_

_Wait for me, Father!_

She has succeeded, despite the doubts sown by some of Dorne's great lords, voiced the loudest by Lord Wyl and Lord Uller.

“Mere threats are worthless,” insisted Lord Wyl. “Aegon Targaryen must first lose his heir, before he would be willing to consider peace without our submission.”

“The threat itself is enough,” Prince Nymor insisted, “if Aegon could be convinced that the threat is not an idle one.”

“It matters not what you say to convince Aegon. This is a great travesty to begin with. Princess Meria would never have considered negotiating with the dragons,” Lord Uller protested. “ _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._ Need I remind you of the words of your own House, my prince?”

“Dorne is  _already_  broken, after these long years of unceasing wars and hostilities,” Prince Nymor replied. “I am not my mother, but I  _am_  the Prince of Dorne, and I mean to have peace for Dorne before I die.”

“Peace at  _any_  cost?” questioned Lord Wyl. “Even at the cost of bowing your head and bending your knee to Aegon Targaryen?”

“My daughter will negotiate for peace between equals, not peace between the conquered and their conqueror.”

Meria Martell was fully aware of what her son intended to do, after he succeeded her as the ruler of Dorne. “I will not long outlive you, Mother,” Nymor had told her, on her deathbed. “But I do not wish to leave a Dorne that is still wracked with war, bloodshed and dragonflame to my daughter.”

“Your daughter has more will and conviction in her bones than you think,” Meria had replied. “She is my granddaughter, remember? But when I am dead, you will do as  _you_  see fit, as the Prince of Dorne, and when you are dead, your daughter will do as  _she_  sees fit, as the Princess of Dorne. That is how it should be. That is how it  _must_  be. The approval or disapproval of the dead matters very little to the living.”

What Deria will see fit to do about the dragons as the Princess of Dorne is a consideration for another day. Perhaps she will turn out to be more her grandmother's granddaughter than her father's daughter. At this moment, however, her only wish is to bring home her father's heart's desire, his desire to see peace in Dorne, before he closes his eyes for good.

The first face Deria looks for after entering the gates of the Old Palace is the maester’s face, the maester who has been attending to her father during his illness. The maester accosts her the moment she arrives. “Princess, your father -”

_\- is not dead! Tell me he lives still. Tell me -_

“Your father is waiting for you in his bedchamber.”

Deria breathes a sigh of relief. “He is … well?” she asks. Oh, what a foolish question, she thinks, the instant the words leave her mouth. Of course her father is not well. “Is he worse than he was when I left?”

The maester hesitates. “It will not be long now. Perhaps a few days  more, or a week at most. He … he waited for you. That gave him strength, to hold on.”

She will not cry, she tells herself. She will not shed tears in front of her father. She will smile her brightest smile, the smile her father says is brighter than Nymeria's star, and she will tell him, “I have brought home your heart's desire, Father.”

Her tears fall the moment he calls out her name. “Deria. My dearest daughter.”


	19. Chapter 19

 

> _“You forget, my great-uncle wore the same cloak. He died when I was little, yet I still remember him. He was as tall as a tower and used to tickle me until I could not breathe for laughing.” (A Feast for Crows)_

“How much has my little princess grown, since I last saw her?”

“This  _muuuuuuch_ ,” Arianne replied, extending her arms to the longest span possible.

“And yet she is still a dainty little thing, like her lady mother. I’m afraid our Arianne will never grow to be as tall as her great-uncle.”

“I will too!” Arianne declared, her face a picture of outrage and indignation. “I will grow as tall as you are. Taller than Father, taller than Uncle Oberyn.”

“Taller than the Tower of the Sun and the Spear Tower?” Lewyn asked, tickling the soles of Arianne’s feet, before moving on to her arms.

Arianne’s indignation dissolved into shrieks of glee and mirth. Amidst her breathless giggles and laughter, she managed to say, “Noooooo, not  _that_  tall. I’m not a giant.”

Eyes twinkling, Lewyn teased, “I’d wager your cousin Rhaenys will soon be taller than you are. She is growing taller every day. I could barely keep up with the change.”

“No, she won’t! She’s a tiny little thing. I remember when Mother put her in my arms and I sang to her, to lull her to sleep. Her head was ever so tiny, and her hands and feet too, like the hands and feet of my dolls.”

“But that was quite some time ago, when she was only a babe. Your cousin Rhaenys is so much older now.”

“Older, and bigger, and taller?”

Lewyn nodded.

“Can she walk now?” Arianne questioned, her curiosity about her cousin fully awakened. “Can she run? Can she jump?”  

“The answer is yes to all three. And she can dance as well,” Lewyn replied.

Arianne clapped. “Then she’s old enough to play with me in the Water Gardens. I can show her my favorite pool.” Then, staring sternly at her great-uncle, she said, “You should have brought her with you.”   

“Perhaps I will, on my next visit.”  _Gods be good, I hope to bring them all home soon,_  Lewyn thought. Rhaenys, Elia and the little babe Aegon; he wanted them all safe and sound in Dorne, far from the dragon’s den, far from Robert Baratheon’s approaching army.

Arianne was tugging at his billowing white cloak. She had little patience for long silences. Lewyn put on his brightest smile. “What games will you play with your cousin Rhaenys, when she comes to the Water Gardens?”

 Arianne pondered the question. “I will … I will …” she paused, and then grinned, as inspiration struck. “I will teach her how to bring down a giant.”

“Oh? And how will you do that, pray tell?”

“Like this!” she announced, as her fingers grew busy tickling Lewyn’s neck, throat and face.


	20. Chapter 20

“What is he like, your brother Maron?”

Mariah contemplated the question, while her hand continued brushing Daenerys' hair. This was their nighttime ritual, ever since the death of Daenerys’ mother. Knowing her husband and his loathing for her and the children she had borne him, Queen Naerys, on her deathbed, had entrusted her daughter’s care to the hands of her son and her good-daughter. While Aegon IV still breathed, Daenerys had made her home in Dragonstone with Daeron, Mariah and their sons. Closer in age to her nephews than to her older brother, Daenerys had grown up like a sibling to Baelor, Aerys, Rhaegel and Maekar.   

“He is … he was a sweet boy,” Mariah finally replied.  

Daenerys turned her head to gaze at her good-sister. “A sweet  _boy_? Not a sweet man?”

“Maron was still a young boy, when I left Dorne to wed your brother.” When she left her home, and left her birthright as the future Princess of Dorne, to marry a man she barely knew, for the sake of ensuring peace between Dorne and the Iron Throne. And now Daenerys must also leave  _her_  home to marry a man she barely knew, to ensure an even more lasting peace, and to bring Dorne into her brother’s realm. As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and as Daeron’s wife, Mariah knew she must rejoice at the prospect. But as a Dornishwoman, and as Daenerys’ good-sister, her feelings were more mixed and complicated.  

“So you do not know what Prince Maron is like as a man?” Daenerys asked. “You only know the boy that he was, the boy you knew many years ago.”

“I  _have_ seen him since I left Dorne, though not as often as I would have liked. And we have been in frequent correspondence over the years. I am not completely ignorant of his character. He is not cruel or unkind, and he always tries his best to do his duty, and to be a good man as well as a good prince. But I will not lie to you, sweetling. I cannot guarantee what sort of husband Maron will be. That remains to be seen. I have never lied to you before, and I will not begin now, not even about my own brother.”

“If … if … he is anything like his sister, then he will be a good husband, I am sure,” Daenerys said, with a shy smile.

“He must endeavor to be a good husband to you, or he will have to answer to your sister.”

“To my sister? He will have to answer to his sister, you mean?”

“His, and yours too,” Mariah said, before kissing both of Daenery’s cheeks.   

_She is precious to me, Maron. She is like a sister to me. She is like a daughter to me. I hope, and I pray, that the prince she weds will bring her as much joy and happiness as the prince I wed has brought me, despite my fears, doubts and reservations at the beginning of our union._

 


End file.
